


Bleeding Out

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU in which Maedhros dies on the return from Thangorodrim, Angst, Gen, Grief, Guilt, Non-Canonical Character Death, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[AU: What if Maedhros had not survived Fingon's rescue?]</p><p>In the wake of his brother's death, Maglor must try to unite their divided people as best they can, but the alliances are fragile at best. Meanwhile, Fingon is plagued by nightmares that will not let him sleep...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding Out

The messenger that crossed the lake was dressed in faded blue. She did not tell king Macalaurë why he was being summoned to his half-uncle’s camp, only that it was an extremely urgent matter.

After the assurance that he would be treated with honour and that his safety would be assured, Macalaurë went, leaving his brothers behind.

(Despite the assurance that no harm would come to him, the king buckled on his sword belt beneath his cloak anyway, something that he knew the messenger had noted.)

His uncle met him with steel in his gaze, but there was also pity there, which alarmed Macalaurë more than fury would have, more than hate and rage and everything else that Ñolofinwë had ample reason to feel. The two of them spoke in clipped syllables, brittle with tension.

“Findekáno” said Ñolofinwë without preamble, “made an attempt to rescue your brother.”

For a moment Macalaurë was entirely lost for words. It was all he could do not to gape, his mind wiped momentarily blank. “I… _what_?”

“Findekáno. He went to Angband, alone, and brought back Maitimo with him, wounded to the death.” Macalaurë opened him mouth to speak again, but Ñolofinwë raised a hand to stay him, sorrow behind his eyes. “They returned earlier today, but… Maitimo did not survive. I am sorry, Macalaurë. Believe me when I say that the healers tried their utmost to save him, for I ordered them to. But it was no good. Maitimo is dead.”

Macalaurë’s voice came in a choked whisper, even as black despair began to rise behind his eyes. He pushed it down, trying to form words. “Why?” A child’s question, he knew, shame immediately filling him. “How? What happened?”

“It seems Moringotto had him shackled to the side of a cliff, by the wrist” said Ñolofinwë, and Macalaurë could tell he was trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Findekáno could only free him by cutting off his hand, at the wrist, but Maitimo was losing too much blood…”

The words drowned in the roaring in Macalaurë’s ears.

————

Findekáno’s eyes were raw pits of pain, his face pale and blotchy. He was outside the room when Macalaurë and Ñolofinwë arrived there, pacing like a trapped animal as the presence of that door loomed large. There was blood staining his clothes, drying to rusty brown. Macalaurë’s head was spinning at the tale Ñolofinwë had told him, his stomach roiling. The look Findekáno gave him was pure hatred.

“You - ” spat Findekáno. “You  _dare_  to come here…” he stood with his hands balled into fists, “… _now_ , after all this?”

Macalaurë thought that Findekáno would launch himself at him, but Ñolofinwë laid a gentle but firm palm on his son’s chest. “Finno” he said quietly. “Now is not the time.”

“It damned well is the time” snarled Findekáno, his voice rising, tears starting in his eyes. “I hope you  _burn_ , Macalaurë. Like your father. Get out of here, and leave us, and - ”

“Findekáno.”

Findekáno turned to his father. “Why did you summon  _him_  here? The traitor? The one who left Maitimo to die? He has no right to be here.”

Macalaurë felt his own anger rising, the oppressive presence of the door shortening his temper. “I am your king, Findekáno. And Maitimo is…” he bit his lip “… _was_  my brother. If I had been able to do anything, if I had not been bound by Oath and responsibility to my people - ”

Findekáno snorted derisively. “You speak to us of responsibility to your people? After everything? After the Ice? How can you possibly have the nerve to - ”

“Findekáno” said Ñolofinwë again, heavily. “This is not the time.”

“How can you forgive him, Atar?” said Findekáno. “Is it really that easy for you?”

Ñolofinwë’s patience was fraying, Macalaurë could tell. “Do not think I have forgiven Fëanáro or any of his sons. I have not. But Macalaurë is here to see his brother, and I would not begrudge him that small kindness. That is something that a true and honourable prince of the Ñoldor owes not only to their king…” he inclined his head to Macalaurë, “…but to anyone grieving a brother’s death.”

Findekáno hesitated for a moment, then relented, letting his father hold him stiffly in his arms as the tears came, flowing down his cheeks. “I’m sorry” he whispered hoarsely into Ñolofinwë’s shoulder. “It’s my fault he’s dead… I should have been quicker, I could have  _saved_  him, I should have…”

“Hush, Finno” murmured Ñolofinwë, stroking Findekáno’s dishevelled hair. Macalaurë felt absurdly like an intruder, a voyeur.

The two of them parted after a moment, both drawing themselves up to look at Macalaurë, father and son with their eyes filled with defiance and sorrow both.

They all turned to look at the door when it opened and one of the healers came out, dropping a hasty bow. “Lords, your highness, you may see him now.”

Before the whole thing had seemed surreal to Macalaurë, like something out of one of his nightmares, strange and disorientating. Seeing Maitimo’s body lying there did nothing to make it feel any more real. The healers had washed him and covered him in a sheet, but even when they drew it back, Macalaurë barely recognised his brother. His face was pale, horrifyingly thin, like a skull, and laced with scars and wheals and abrasions. Even his bright hair looked pale in the grey light filtering through the small window. His right wrist was a red ruin, drying blood turning black. Macalaurë stared for a long time at that beloved face he had long ago resigned himself – for his own sanity – to never seeing again, so familiar and yet so frighteningly alien in death. Their father and their youngest brother had burned; it had not been like this. He stared helplessly around at the faces that were all watching him, desperate for some indication that this was all a dream.

They were all watching him, and no sign came.

————

Maitimo’s funeral pyre sent up a column of smoke into the cloudy sky, the breeze sending the smoke drifting over the iron-grey waters of Lake Mithrim. They stood at the western tip of the lake, in the no-man’s land beneath the hills, halfway between the two camps. Macalaurë had made a speech, though he barely managed to get the words out without choking on them; he was remembering. Remembering what Maitimo had taught him, all those years ago when Macalaurë had been a child and afraid of speaking and singing in front of many people.  _Hold your head up, and breathe, and project your voice. You’ll be fine, little brother. I know you can do it._

Afterwards his eyes met Findekáno’s and their gazes locked. Findekáno wore a long cloak of dark wool, buttoned tight to the neck against the chill, and his hair was unbraided, lifting slightly in the breeze. Findekáno had always shown his emotions clear across his face, but his eyes seemed empty now, his gaze filled with nothing but hardened resolve. His face was still, unyielding as stone.

The formal oaths of reconciliation and allegiance to the crown sworn after the ceremony had done little to relieve the chill between the two camps. If anything, it had only made the tension thicker, hanging in air like the smoke haze left behind by the pyre. Afterwards they had all hurried back to the opposite sides of the lake, just as before.  

Macalaurë took off the crown carefully, lifting it from his head and massaging the places at the temples where its points rubbed a little against his skin. It was a beautiful thing, designed to sit at the back of the head and curve down over the ears, but the points dug in a little when he wore it for two long. He gritted his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose as he thought of the meeting with Ñolofinwë and their cousins that morning, a war council of sorts in which nevertheless no real conclusion had been reached.

He paced the room, thinking. His eyes lit for a moment on the harp in the corner of his study, and he picked it up, running idle fingers across the strings. The instrument was out of tune, the sound too loud in the silent room, worsening the headache building behind his eyes.

————

Findekáno tossed in fitful sleep, his fingers bunched in the blankets.

_“Maitimo. Maitimo, can you hear me?” Findekáno clung to his cousin with windchilled fingers, slippery with blood, as he cradled him down from Thorondor’s back, both of them slipping the last few feet down to the ground together. Maitimo’s face was pale and drained beneath the smeared dirt, his eyes losing focus and rolling back, showing white. Fear surged through Findekáno as he inspected the rudimentary binding he had made for Maitimo’s wrist; it was slipping, blood spurting in ever weakening bursts through the gore-soaked linen. His lips were pale, bloodless, and he tried to speak, but no sound came out._

_“Shh” said Findekáno, gripping Maitimo’s left hand in his own, “I’m going to get you to the camp, alright? I’m going to carry you.” He craned upwards to the camp, not far off. Already the guards were crying out at the sight of the eagle, and hope flared within Findekáno. “I’m going to secure the bandage, and then I’m - ”_

_“F-Fin…”_

_Maitimo’s fingers were weak in his own, and growing quickly weaker. “Don’t talk” said Findekáno. “Save your strength. You’re going to make it, Maitimo, I promise, I won’t let you go, I’m going to save you, I’m going to…” he felt hot tears in his eyes as he spoke a stream of reassurance, as much to himself as to Maitimo, who seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness, his breathing shallow and irregular. Findekáno’s hands were slipping in the blood as he tried to tighten the binding on Maitimo’s severed wrist, and he realised he was only making things worse. Cursing, Findekáno tried to keep applying pressure to the bloody stump of Maitimo’s wrist as he scrambled to his feet and scooped his cousin into his arms, holding him as one would a child. He was so light now, Findekáno thought with a pang, only skin and bone, clinging to life. Hold on just a little longer, please, please…_

In the darkened room, Findekáno whimpered and cried out in his sleep and rolled over, shivering convulsively.

The dream began again, and this time it was different.

_Findekáno was shackled to the stone by the wrist, pain shooting through his arm, tearing through his body. Hot blood ran down his skin from where a knife was cutting through sinew, through bone… he tried to look up, to see, but the light of the pale sun blinded him, glancing off a blade. There was silver there, silver and red… was that blood, or the red of Maitimo’s hair? Was that silver from a blade, or the silver of familiar eyes, narrowed in accusation, in blame? Findekáno tried to blink the tears from his eyes, but then there was a final stab of excruciating pain in his wrist, a hand letting go of him, and then he was falling, far, far down to the rocks below…_

He woke with a sickening jolt, sitting up quickly enough to make his head spin. His heart was racing, his skin coated in a layer of cooling sweat. Slowly, he unclenched his hands, holding them both out before him, remembering what they had looked like covered in blood.  _Maitimo’s blood, or the blood of the mariners at Alqualondë… he had made himself a kinslayer anew._ He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and pressing his knuckles into his eyes in frustrated exhaustion.

————

“The seat of the high king” Curufinwë was saying, pointing at a spot on the map that was spread across the broad council table, “should be here. The country of Híthilómë is perfectly placed to rule from, and to create a network of roads reaching all over the continent.”

Macalaurë nodded. “We shall place the capital here, where Sirion rises. Barad Eithel, the fortress shall be called, and it will be the capital. Uncle…” he nodded at Ñolofinwë, “you and yours should go east, into the wide lands here…” he swept a hand across the map, “and Findaráto, Dorthonion and the lands about the western and northern borders of Doriath shall be for you and your siblings to divide up as you choose.”

Turukáno raised an eyebrow. “You would banish the whole of my father’s house out onto the eastern marches to act as… as arrow fodder for the Enemy’s first attacks? You would hide behind our lines?”

Carnistir glared at him, a flush beginning to flare across his cheeks. “ _Hide?_  No. We would place the seat of the high king in a location worthy of him, and we would order the rest of our house’s  _subjects_ as we choose, cousin.”

Macalaurë laid a placating hand on his brother’s arm. “ _Arrow fodder,_ Turukáno? Leaving aside, for the moment, your impertinence, I would also say that was inaccurate. The east is a wide and rich land, which is no more dangerous that the western shores of the sea and yet still needs to be defended. I am king, and I am delegating the task to the house of Ñolofinwë, whom I  _trust_.” There was an unspoken _for now_  in his voice. “But ruling is best done from Híthilómë.” He ignored his cousin, who was looking daggers at him. “Findaráto, I assume that your brother has yet to return from his trip to Doriath?”

 “Yes” said Findaráto. “Angaráto is still there. But when he returns, if all goes to plan, we should have the friendship of king Elwë.”

“Good.” Macalaurë nodded approvingly.

————-

“Findaráto.” Findekáno caught his cousin’s arm as he was leaving the council chamber. “May I talk to you?”

Findaráto smiled his easy smile, cocking his head curiously and offering Findekáno his arm. “Of course. Let’s walk back around the lake together.”

They walked in companionable silence until they reached the outer borders of the camp, their cloaks snapping in the cold breeze off the lake. Then Findaráto turned to look Findekáno in the eye. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

Findekáno hesitated for a moment, looking out over the grey water. “Maitimo” he said at length, the name sticking in his throat.

“Ah.”

“Yes. I wanted to know… Findaráto, do you think… with his Oath, and with Alqualondë… will he ever be allowed to return from Mandos?” He swallowed, feeling a sickness in the pit of his stomach, dreading Findaráto’s answer.

Findaráto mulled over this for a moment. “Why are you asking  _me?_ ” he said at length.

“You are… were… close to the Valar. I thought if anyone would know, then you would. And I trust you not to tell my father or brother that I asked.”

“Ah” said Findaráto again, looking at Findekáno with concern in his eyes now. “If this is because of something Turukáno said…”

“Do you know the answer to my question or not?” snapped Findekáno.

“Alright. I think that… you won’t like it.”

Findekáno squared his shoulders. “Tell me.”

“I think the line in the Oath in which they doomed themselves to the everlasting darkness should they fail may well prevent the Valar from being  _able_  to bring Maitimo back, even if they chose to. Even if, as you say, they were able to undo their own Doom and forgive him the slaying of our kin at Alqualondë.” Findaráto’s face darkened then, his voice growing stiff and distant. Findekáno realised, wretchedly, that Findaráto was probably thinking of the sight of Findekáno himself, drenched in the blood of the Telerin mariners as the stars wheeled overhead and the torches smoked in the darkness.

But Findaráto only bent down and picked up a pebble from the shore of the lake, examining it curiously before turning to look back at Findekáno. “You will likely not see him again, and if you do, he will be much changed. I am sorry.”

Findekáno frowned. “Do you fear death, Findaráto?”

“I am not Maitimo. Our circumstances are different.”

“I’m not talking about Maitimo. I’m talking about you.”

“I fear… I fear dying without  _doing_  anything. I fear dying for no purpose, and having my part in the war against Moringotto come to nothing.”

Findekáno was silent for a long time. “I fear that too. But mostly I fear the mistakes that I will make on the way.”

Findaráto threw the pebble into the lake.

“I could speak to your brother for you” Findaráto said after a while. “If you like.”

Findekáno scowled. “I doubt it will make a difference. Turukáno has made his views quite clear.”

“And what are those?”

“That I grieve for Maitimo too… strongly. He says that I felt more for a traitor than I did for our own little brother when he died.”

Almost immediately he regretted having told Findaráto this, but his cousin only looked at him in that way he had that always made one want to confide in him further. Findekáno balled his hands into furious fists at his sides. “It’s not true though!” he burst out. “I miss Arakáno just as much as he did, and felt the loss just as keenly. But my grief for Maitimo is… well, it’s of a different sort, and it’s not comparable. I was to  _blame_  for his death. Who does Turukáno think he is, trying to… to make a tally of grief, of tragedy, like it’s some sort of competition, like I need to be held to account for it?”

“Turukáno” mused Findaráto, “can be like that sometimes. That’s how he thinks.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I just wish he were  _less so_ , sometimes.”

“You’re not really that different, you and your brother” said Findaráto. “Turukáno tried to save Elenwë, remember? He failed, and he blames himself for her death. Perhaps he lashes out at you because he can’t hold himself above you any longer.”

“Yes, that sounds like something Turno might do” said Findekáno with a bitter laugh. “But it’s different with Maitimo and me.”

“Why? You and Turno are both hurting because you couldn’t save someone you loved.”

“Yes, but…”

“Look, Findekáno. All I’m saying is that the two of you are not as different as you think you are.” He smiled then, changing the subject abruptly. “But what do you think of Macalaurë’s map, hmm? The lands that will be yours! Is that not what you wanted from the beginning?”

 _Everything is different now_ , thought Findekáno bitterly. But Findaráto was so clearly trying to cheer him up that he forced himself to smile. “Yes” he said. “I suppose it was what I wanted.”

————-

“Macalaurë” said Curufinwë, “we have made progress securing the allegiance of another of the Mithrim villages, it should only be…” he stopped abruptly as he caught his brother’s gaze. “Macalaurë, is something wrong?”

“You know very well” said Macalaurë, his voice dry and clipped. Suddenly he felt weak, and he let himself slip into a chair, his head falling forwards into his hands. “I don’t think I can do it, Curvo” he burst out, shame rushing through him. “Not… not knowing what I know. Not now.”

Curufinwë frowned, sitting down beside him and placing a stiff hand on his wrist. “Don’t be a fool, Káno.” His voice was hollow, but gentler than it had been. “Nothing has changed. You were king before, and, functionally, the situation is the same. Only - ”

“ _The same?_ ” interrupted Macalaurë, raising his tear-stained face, eyes flashing dangerously. “The same? How can you be so…” he growled, balling his hands into furious fists. “ _Nothing_  is the same, Curvo. Nelyo is  _dead_ , and he wasn’t before, as much as we would have wished him to be, as a mercy.” He let out a pained sound that was halfway between a bitter laugh and a sob. “We know now that it would have at least been  _possible_  to rescue him whilst still keeping to the terms of the Oath, and I – yes, I, and I alone – have to live with the knowledge that we didn’t take that chance. And if you think that that changes nothing… well, I don’t know what to say to you, only that you’re even more of a cold, heartless shell of a person than even I thought.” He glared at his brother, pulling his arm away and rising abruptly to his feet. He paced to the window, restless. “I don’t even know why I’m so surprised. Ever since Atar died, you’ve cared nothing for anything but the Oath, and the Silmarils. Not for our people, or your brothers, not for Ambarto, not for Nelyo, and… Eru, not even for your  _son!_ ”

Curufinwë stood. “How dare you - ”

“No! Listen to me, for once.” He smiled, a terrible, ironic twist to his mouth. “Listen to your king. King of the traitors and the kinslayers and deserters of kin in their need.”

“There is nothing we can do to change the past. The Oath is set, and Nelyo is dead, and neither you nor I can do anything about it. Do you think you’re the only one to love him?” Curufinwë’s voice cracked a little. “You’re behaving like a child, Macalaurë.”

“A child? No. There are no children in this camp. Childhoods like the ones we knew don’t exist anymore. Not here.”

The two of them stood glaring at each other from across the room for a long moment, when suddenly the door burst open once more, and Tyelkormo stood there, frowning. “Curvo? Káno? What’s going on…?”

“Macalaurë” said Curufinwë icily, “is just informing me that our brother is  _dead_. I suppose he thinks I have forgotten.” His words were darts, meant to wound, and Macalaurë knew he winced, despite himself. “And that he is incapable of remaining as king of our people in the circumstances. Odd, since Macalaurë was the one who argued in favour of obeying Nelyo’s wishes and not going on a suicide mission to try to find him, ruling against the majority on the basis of being  _king_.”

Macalaurë’s look was desolate now, the fight going out of him, as his shoulders slumped. “Do you think” he said, hollowly, “that I do not live with that knowledge every moment of every day?”

“Leave him be, Curvo” said Tyelkormo, going to stand beside Macalaurë and squaring his shoulders. “Káno has suffered enough through all of this.”

With a derisive sound, Curufinwë swept from the room, leaving Macalaurë standing at the window, his breath misting the cold glass of the new pane as he peered out across the lake.

“Káno” began Tyelkormo. “I don’t know what he said to you, but I know Curvo can be very - ”

“Yes, thank you, Tyelko” said Macalaurë coldly. “Save your breath.” He could feel Tyelkormo’s resentful eyes on his back, and knew he would feel guilty later.

“Fine. Then I’ll leave you alone.”

When he was gone, Macalaurë let his forehead tip forward against the cold glass, tears welling in his eyes as he gazed out into the gathering darkness of the stormy night, thick clouds blocking out the moon. A wind was rising. Outside, there was a brief flash of lightening, and then a rumble of distant thunder.

Macalaurë watched the waters of the lake grow dark as the rain began to fall.

————-

“You aught not to blame yourself so, Finno” Irissë was saying, in exasperation.

He turned his gaze on her. “Look me in the eye and tell me that if you were in my position, that you wouldn’t blame yourself.”

She sighed, holding up her hands in defeat. “Alright. Fine.” She frowned. “But Finno, we’re all worried about you. You’ve been behaving… well, not like you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She shrugged. “If you say so, Finno. Just… if this… all this, if it’s causing you to - ”

“I’m fine, Irissë” he growled. “Go back to Turukáno, why don’t you.”

She scowled and left him.

When she was gone, he stood there still and silent for a long while, listening to his own breathing and the sounds of the wind outside. There would be a storm tonight, he knew.

There was only a small fire burning in the grate, but suddenly the room began to feel oppressive and hot. Findekáno tugged at his high collar with a growl of frustration, before letting himself quietly out, tiptoeing past his the room where he knew his brother and sister were.

The night air outside hit him with a blast of cold that made him gasp slightly, the half-frozen rain that was beginning to streak down from the sky already lashing against his face. It stung, but he did not care, in fact he rather relished it.  _At least it was real. At least he felt alive. And it was not the snow of the Helcaraxë; that was something._

He climbed up to the low roof, letting his muscles do the work, taking a savage joy in the wind that tugged at his cloak, chilling his fingers. He stood upon the flat roof, looking out at the vast dark bulk of Thangorodrim in the distance, silhouetted against the darkening, lowering clouds. A bolt of lightning lit the cloud from the inside.

 _Somewhere there_ , thought Findekáno,  _somewhere hiding behind those mountains, is the real enemy._ He had to believe that.  _What if I were to simply take my sword and my bow and ride against him alone, right now?_  The notion was so ridiculous that it made him laugh, a bitter choking laugh. And yet it also filled him with a pang of longing as another lightening strike hit the mountains in the distance;  _if only it were possible to just make an end to this, on my own. To atone for my past actions. It would not bring back Maitimo, or Arakáno, or Elenwë, or any of the others who died on the Ice. It would not bring back the Teleri who manned the docks, nor would it lift this doom off my shoulders. But it would be something._

 _Especially_ , said a small, cruel voice in his head,  _if you yourself died in the attempt, kinslayer._

Findekáno shut his eyes, as the rain began to slick his unbound hair down over his face.  _No._

He let his eyes open, just in time to be blinded by another lightning strike. The storm was getting closer now.

“Findekáno!”

The voice startled him, and he wheeled around to look for its source. “Atar! I was just…”

“Are you mad? Come down from there!”

With a rush of shame, Findekáno clambered down from the roof.

“Finno - ” began Ñolofinwë, reaching out to him, once they were inside.

“Don’t, please” said Findekáno, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I know that was unnecessary and stupid.”

“Findekáno” said Ñolofinwë seriously, as Findekáno peeled off his wet cloak. “I’m worried about you. I worry that you’ll do something rash. That you’ll… I don’t know, rush out to try to finish this war on your own.”

Findekáno sighed. “I have contemplated it.”

There was pain in his father’s gaze, and Findekáno felt the guilt return.

“I’ve already thought I lost you once” said Ñolofinwë quietly. “When you went off to Angband alone. Don’t put me through that again, Finno. Not after Arakáno. Please.”

 _I achieved nothing anyway. Worse than nothing._  He felt the tears come again then. “Atar” he said, leaning into his father’s open arms. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. For… for everything.”

Ñolofinwë held him and stroked his wet hair. “Hush, son. There’s nothing to forgive. I know what it is to want to keep people safe. I know what it is to fail to.”

Findekáno nodded into his father’s shoulder, but privately he was wondering,  _how many more times will we know that particular pain before this is over? How many more will we fail to save?_

But to this question, he found he had no answer.  

 


End file.
